


Odds

by taekaneru



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Consent, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 22:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17631170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taekaneru/pseuds/taekaneru
Summary: Then, there’s that sound again. A hoarse, rattling kind of sound; very quiet. He maybe won’t have noticed at all, had he not been so unhurried in the first place. He peers into the forest. Listens. Should he just go on? Or check first? Considering the importance of the safety of their hideout, it probably would be ploughing stupid to not secure his way home properly.Roche sighs silently. So, this will probably be the death of him, then…Or:Roche has to try himself as potion master.





	Odds

**Author's Note:**

> All actions are assumed to be happening under (implied) mutual consent, although there is an external trigger (if you want to call it like that).

When Roche returns to the forests inhabiting the Temerian hideout, the sun is already starting to set. The slow breeze surrounding him is still pleasantly warm, the last rays of the sun blinking golden-red between the trees.

The last few days in Novigrad had been tiring, the drafts of the lot of paperwork concerning the lands in the north and their possible future conceptions not being sufficiently complete to really work out a solution. If they really wanted to reach some kind of political agreement, Roche contemplates, the others should had done their homework. Now, with the poor state of their preparations, the last days of meetings had been nothing but a stupid waste of time. All the energy he had put into his proposals in the last weeks had been misspent. Nevertheless, as useless as the negotiations had been, he could now sit and wait until the others would keep up. He could use the time for other pressing matters.

Still, he’s probably lucky enough being in the position he’s in: being able to negotiate even though Temeria and the small remains of his army usually operated in the underground.

Sitting idly on the back of his horse, Roche makes certain again that no one (and nothing) is following him, when he reaches the small clearing near the river to his left. He halts his horse smoothly, holding his breath to listen and gaze into the vicinity of the forest. The river is calm, sounds of water splashing only occasionally break the silence. Some birds are chirping quietly, the rustling in the leaves of the trees suggests nothing out of the ordinary. He turns his head and looks around calmly, letting himself relax into the nature. The quiet huffs and the warm body of his horse beneath him making him feel at ease, probably more than he should be. There is still too much at stake. 

The last light of the day is entrancing, somehow, and Roche smiles to himself, accepting that even he himself is not immune to nature’s charms.

He waits a few minutes longer, pondering whether to take the shortest way to the cave on the right or choose the other, safer route straight ahead of him.

He presses his left leg a bit stronger to the side of his horse, turning rightwards, when he notices an unusual sound, slightly behind him on the right. He halts again to listen. There is a small hedge of taxus at the side of the clearing, behind which the covert starts, obscuring the view further into the woods. 

Then, there’s that sound again. A hoarse, rattling kind of sound; very quiet. He maybe won’t have noticed at all, had he not been so unhurried in the first place. He peers into the forest. Listens. Should he just go on? Or check first? Considering the importance of the safety of their hideout, it probably would be ploughing stupid to not secure his way home properly.

Roche sighs silently. So, this will probably be the death of him, then…

He lets himself slide from the back of his horse, slowly and as quietly as possible. Drawing his sword deliberately, he takes a cautious step towards the hedges, following the sound. The closer he gets, the more it sounds like labored breaths by some kind of creature. Maybe a wounded deer. Or another, more dangerous fiend already lurking for him to let his guard down.

Slowly rounding the hedge on the right, Roche creeps forward foot by foot. Gradually, the woods clear up and he gets a better view. He advances extremely slowly by now, body tense and ready to strike at any sign of danger. He holds his last deep breath, when he finally reaches the covert and looks behind.

With a sudden rush of adrenaline he recognizes a human figure lying on the ground, clad in black leather boots, dark trousers, heavy armor and, fastened to broad shoulder belts, two rather large, very intricately crafted swords. 

Wait. He recognizes those! These swords, one steel, one silver, belong to a certain Witcher he had not seen in a months’ time by now.

“ _Geralt?_ What the fuck? Is this you?”

The body heaves a rattling breath and turns onto its back, with the last remains of strength it seems to possess.

“Roche…?” the man croaks.

“ _Fuck,_ Geralt!” Roche is at his side in an instant, now recognizing the familiar figure of the Witcher and cursing himself that he had been so slow on the uptake. Geralt’s face is bruised, his cheek decorated with a nasty looking cut, his lower lip split and, judging from the way he holds his arms to his torso, also heavily injured on the rest of his body.  
He grabs at Geralt’s arms, trying to cut down on his own shock by reminding himself to be careful, gentle. He struggles to steady him, righting him up a little bit. When his hands roam over the Witcher’s body briefly, checking for further injuries, his left hand comes back bloodied. With a sudden shock, he notices a large slash through the chainmail on Geralt’s right side, the skin underneath gaping and blood still trickling from a relatively large incision. 

Looking at Geralt’s face again, his eyes glazed with fever and only opened to small slits, he curses aloud again. The Witcher seems barely conscious anymore. Now’s definitely not the time to dwell on sensitivities.

“Geralt! What happened?” He sets his right hand to Geralt’s face, pressing down on his cheek bone. 

“Roche,” Geralt manages, but only barely, “had some bad luck with a fucking insectoid.”

“You’re still bleeding. Hold on, I’ll get something to patch you up.”

Roche, spurred into action, curses his initial stun. Whistling for his horse while jogging up to it, he hastily opens one of the bags on his saddle, fetching some cloths and cords. Never had he thought to find Geralt here, less so injured beyond the Witcher managing on his own. Had Witchers not got potions for every little crap they suffered? What the hell had happened to Geralt?

He has to get him onto his horse, and for that he needs to get rid of the saddle. Rustling through the bags he takes everything of value and that is small enough so he can stow it onto his gambeson. Loosening the leather surcingle and belts, he slides the heavy saddle off and makes to hide it to the side of a large rock, beneath a thickset hedge.

Letting himself fall down beneath Geralt again, he places the makeshift bandages down next to him.

“Geralt, can you sit up? Wait, I’ll help.”

Roche shuffles to Geralt’s side, sliding his arms down the Witcher’s shoulders and pushing up slowly, supporting Geralt when the man heaves himself upright. Geralt gasps out an agonized breath but succeeds in staying upright once Roche has his back against his chest. Lying his head down on the Temerian’s shoulder, he gives a clipped sigh.

“Thank you,” Geralt manages.

“You can thank me later, when I’ve brought you to my camp,” he retorts harsher than he intends. Though, he is incredibly glad that he found Geralt, who now seems a bit farther away from unconsciousness again. His concern masks all other feelings for the moment. In a far corner of his brain he is astounded that he is so affected.

He puts his arms around the Witcher’s body, grabbing the cloth, folding and wrapping it around firmly, then tying it with the help of the cords, making sure the knots are nowhere near any injury.

“Can you hold yourself up? Just a moment,” Roche orders gently, holding Geralt’s shoulders while stepping around to the man’s front. Geralt nods. “Bend your knees and get them back. Put your arms around my neck. Yes, like that. Now – up!”

Roche slides his hands under Geralt’s arms, grabbing on to his back firmly, and, having secured Geralt’s arms around his own body, starts to lift the Witcher up. His face is pressed into Geralt’s neck, he feels his pulse, the short, shallow breaths under his hands, and the man’s warmth to his body. He’s injured, but alive.

With a good deal of help from Geralt, he manages to get him standing, although Geralt sways heavily. His horse is beside him, and with more luck than anything else, he helps Geralt onto the back of it. He’s sure that if Geralt had not been a Witcher with already superhuman strength and endurance for pain, there would’ve been no chance in that succeeding.

He is eternally grateful.

Mounting behind Geralt to support him, he holds the man to his chest, arms reaching around for the reins carefully. He intends to lead his horse to their hideout on the shortest way possible.

“Roche, thank you,” Geralt murmurs again, leaning back and resting his weight fully on the Temerian. “I’m already feeling better.”

“We’re almost there. You’re incredibly lucky that you made it this far already.”

“Guess I knew where you would find me, didn’t I.”

He huffs slightly annoyed over Geralt’s shoulder, still feeling the tension in the man’s slack body and realizing that he himself is also tenser than he thought he would be. He forces a deep breath into his lungs, smelling Geralt’s skin, metal, earth and a tang of fresh blood. Holding it for a moment and then releasing the breath slowly, he convinces himself that Geralt will be alright once they reach the cave.

Whether or not Roche enjoys them so close together, all pretense of first aid and concerns aside, is a feeling he’s not keen on to investigate further at this moment. Although the shock of Geralt lying in the forests injured, vulnerable beyond reason and prone to be found and killed by who-knows-what, is still nagging at the back of his mind, he _is_ relieved he’s met him again. Over the last weeks solitude almost got the better of him, work not being as fulfilling as in the past. 

Which is no wonder, he thinks and huffs silently.

Since he is only left with consulting in political matters more or less undercover and only because some eminent people seem to still value his opinion on things, he has no choice but hide his interest in Temeria. Although he is sure that anyone who knows him a bit can figure once there is a chance for his old country, he will pursue it. Nevertheless, as long as he can walk the grounds and not be killed on the spot, he’ll keep his mouth shut. But then, apart from Ves and a few of his men there aren’t many people left whom he would consider real comrades.

Geralt being one of them; even if he’s aware their history is especially bizarre. He could never have guessed the journey that had been planned for them since their first meeting in the dungeons.

If he’s quite honest with himself, he’s missed the Witcher; not just the easy company of him. Geralt always reminds him that there happens to be more to life than just bitter politics. Still, the latter’s part of his job. Or had been, really. He sighs. He’s lucky that their paths cross so often, so he can get his mind off all this crap.

“You know, you think so loudly…” Geralt interrupts Roches musings. 

Roche clears his throat, feeling slightly caught out. He chides himself. “It’s nothing. Just thinking about your incredible stupid luck you didn’t get yourself killed before I could find you.”

Geralt hums in agreement, reclining his head lightly, resting it against Roche’s shoulder and exhaling gravely. His breath marginally tickles Roche’s face.

The Temerian is irritated at the sensation, but, then, before he can dawdle on that further, _thankfully?_ makes out the first of the cliffs towering behind the last row of trees in front of them. He steers his horse leftwards, where only the trained eye can make out a slight, darker discoloring in the rocks. Reaching the sharp cut in the wall, he passes the opening and rides between high, vegetated rocks. 

Around the next bend, he spots Hortensio with two of his men, heavily armed on guard.

“Commander!” Hortensio calls, rushing up to Roche and noticing immediately that the situation calls for exceptional action.

“Hortensio, I found Geralt in the forest, he’s heavily injured. Help me get him off to my study and get Ves.”

Hortensio, with the help of his comrade Paulo, slides his arm around Geralt’s waist and they drag the Witcher off the horse.

“Hey, nice to meet you too,” Geralt growls. “Careful!”

“You’re not in the best position to make demands,” Hortensio grumbles. “Hey, Ves!” He calls towards the armor stand on the far end of the cave where Ves seems to be repairing a broken crossbow. “Will you come here?”

They hold Geralt up by stabilizing him under his arms and help him stumble his way through the cave to Roche’s study.

When they reach the separated arm of the cave where Roche has set up his control base, the soldiers lay Geralt down onto the neat bed in the corner of the stone walls. With a groan, Geralt lowers himself down again.

Roche enters shortly after them, with Ves on his heels. “Hortensio, send for someone to fetch my saddle. I hid it 5 minutes to the southeast from here, at the clearing beside the river in the forests. Make sure to obliterate any, I repeat, _any_ traces.”

“Yes, commander.” And with that, Hortensio leaves the room.

“My, Geralt, you are one unlucky sod!” Ves exclaims as she sees Geralt huffing on the bed, blood staining the bandages and seeping through the material. “I’ll fetch some things to help clean you up.”

“Good, thank you, Ves,” Roche appreciates. Paulo returns the same instant, with a large jug of water and a glass for Geralt. Setting the stuff down on the table beside the bed, Roche nods to Paulo.

“Thank you, Paulo, you’re dismissed.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Turning towards Geralt and looking at the Witcher, Roche opens the fastenings of his shoulder belts and relieves himself of his crossbow and then discards his sword onto the armor stand next to the door. He then approaches Geralt again and lays his swords down by the side of the bed.

“Here, Geralt, drink something,” Roche offers, holding out a glass for Geralt, who gulps the contents down hastily. Setting the glass back, Geralt looks down at his torso.

“Roche, I need to get this off-“ Geralt growls, tugging at his chainmail armor but his hands aren’t steady enough to reach the fastenings below the bandages.

“Wait, lie down. We’ll look after you. Ves will be back in a moment.” Roche has to wait only shortly for Ves reentering the room with some towels, a basin with hot water and several bandages. She also brought a bag, the contents clinking together.

“Ves, help me to undress Geralt,” Roche starts, but is interrupted by Geralt’s snort. “What?”

“Didn’t think you’d undress me one day,” Geralt chuckles, but is then wracked by pain again. 

“You’ve fallen onto your head?” Roche grumbles, Ves laughing heartily at the two men.

“You two would make a stunning pair, literally,” she cackles, moving to rid Geralt first of the bandages, then of his chainmail. She then proceeds to open the buttons on Geralt’s shirt and undershirt and tugs the fabric to the side to survey Geralt’s upper body for injuries.

There are a lot of blueish dark red bruises on his torso. She prods Geralt’s body for broken bones, sliding over with the warm, wet towel. Except for the right shoulder, which seems to be contused as well as his rips, only the gaping wound on his right flank seems to be reason for worries.

“Roche, I think it’s nothing too bad, but that gash here looks very dangerous. The bleeding hasn’t stopped, in spite of your wound dressing. I think that needs stitches…”

Roche makes a contemplative sound. “Geralt, don’t you Witchers have potions for that?”

Geralt’s chest raises and lowers slowly with his labored breaths.

“Yes, and, before you think you have to berate me, I _did_ consume potions to staunch bleeding.” He gasps. “Maybe too much time passed so that the effect has already worn off.”

Roche has just opened his mouth to do exactly that, scolding Geralt again, when Ves intervenes.

“Roche, no time to chat now. We must fix him up. I think I can manage.”

Ves rummages in the leather bag and produces two small bottles of liquid and a small, soft looking rug. She opens the first bottle, the brown glass holding some sharp smelling alcoholic tincture. Holding the cloth to the opening, she flips the bottle and, after a few seconds, gestures for Geralt to put his arms high over his chest.

The Witcher starts to prop himself up on his arms, but Roche presses a hand over Geralt’s arm to steady and hold the Witcher down. Ves shuffles closer and presses the fabric firmly onto Geralt’s wound. The Witcher groans in agony and writhes under their hands. Roche curses and seizes Geralt’s shoulders more firmly.

“Could have, ah,... could have warned me,” Geralt tries to complain, but Ves only huffs unconcerned.

“ _I_ didn’t get myself in that position…” She rolls her eyes and rubs steadily over the edges of the incision, cleaning away small scabs of dirt. Folding the cloth over, she pours some of the tincture on it again and continues prodding at Geralt’s skin. 

When the wound seems cleaned, Ves again goes to wash her hands in the hot water basin. She then produces a small set of needles and twine from a pristine white pouch of soft fabric. Preparing them she assesses the incision on the flank of the Witcher again and starts, very carefully, piercing the skin and setting stitch after stitch.

Geralt’s look is pained and he breathes shallowly, but he handles the procedure surprisingly well, laying mostly still. His stunted breathing actually helps Ves, as it reduces movement and she is able to finish sewing him up rather quickly. Roche eyes the operation warily, still holding on to Geralt, his hand on the man’s chest.

Tying the ends of the twine, Ves discards the needle and, picking up the second bottle, opens it and pours the contents directly over the wound. A quiet sizzling sensation burns over Geralt’s skin and the Witcher cannot hold back another pained gasp.

“Well, that’s it. Roche, can you hold him a moment longer? I’ll fetch the bandages.” Ves rips the sheet-bandage into broad stripes and, shimming with additional gauze, presses the bandage to the wound. Geralt writhes in pain, but Roche’s hands on his shoulders are unyielding.

With the help of Roche, Ves wraps the fabric around Geralt and secures it tightly. Controlling the fit again and checking that the pressure is sufficient, she motions for Roche to rid Geralt of his shirts. Leaving the room shortly and returning with a crisp set of linen shirts, they help Geralt get into them. When Roche lets the Witcher fully down onto the bed again, she buttons the garments and grabs the cloth from the water basin again. Finishing by wiping down the cut on Geralt’s face, and cleaning off the last remains of dirt, she then stands to leave.

“Thank you, Ves. Roche,” Geralt rasps, turning his head to look at Roche, visibly relieved that the procedure is now over.

“Ves, you can now go. Thank you,” Roche confirms, nodding her off. Looking Geralt over he adds, “And you, Geralt, should rest now. I’ll be over there at my desk. If there’s anything you need, just say so.”

Turning to walk to the other side of the room, Roche casts a glance on the state of his study. A small brazier is burning next to the wall where his armor stand is located. Some candles further illuminate the room and wrap everything in golden hues. 

Judging that it’s warm enough to forgo his gambeson, he sheds the heavy garment and throws it onto the armor stand. He pauses to think for a moment, and then decides it would be ridiculous to keep wearing his chaperon. He pulls at the soft fabric, loosening the drape around his neck and shoulders and rids himself of the headgear. Ruffling a hand through his short hair to restore some kind of order, the Temerian proceeds to sit down at his desk. Maps, various messy stacks of papers and a few books reside on the wooden surface. There’s barely a clear spot left.

Roche sighs and rubs a hand over his face. He’s a little tired, but nevertheless starts sorting the stack on his left, arranging the books to his right and drags the main map out in front, where it is stuck in the edge of another stack. Better make use of the time, while he’s at it.

A soft growl sounds over from the bed in the corner. He lifts his head to see Geralt watching him curiously.

“What?”

“You have hair,” Geralt mocks, chuckling weakly.

“ _Yes…_ what did you think?” Roche deadpans, sitting up straight and laying down his papers. With a snort, he changes the topic. “Feeling better? The amount of bleeding suggests you don’t…”

Geralt twists his head to inspect his flank and groans.

Roche notices that the bandage is soaked with blood, the linen shirt already stained red at the Witcher’s side. How long did he sort papers and didn’t pay attention to Geralt? Five minutes?

“Looks worse, actually. And Ves’ tinctures do not seem to have helped. What the fuck sliced you up this badly?” Roche ponders, slightly alarmed.

“Fuck,” Geralt growls, “I don’t know what this is. Maybe it would help if I ingested another potion.” At Roche’s questioning look, he explains, “Normally you do that before a fight, exactly which I did, but, ah- I think it couldn’t harm now to try…” he slacks down onto the bed again.

“Problem is,” he continues breathlessly, “I don’t have any prepared potion left. And I’m not in a state to make them myself.”

Roche shifts his gaze from the bloody fabric on Geralt’s body up to his face. He suddenly feels a bit uneasy with the way Geralt’s still looking at him. He clears his throat.

“You mean you need someone to make the potion for you? Where do I get another Witcher now?”

“It hasn’t to be done by a Witcher, per se; it’s not that complicated,” Geralt replies hesitantly.

“Ves?”

Geralt swallows a strained breath. “No offense, but I don’t want to bother Ves with that as well.”

“Then who?” Roche inquires, irritated at Geralt’s intense stare. He knows even _he_ himself can’t be this dense, or, is he? It can’t be that Geralt thinks _he_ would be able to carry out such a thing?

“Roche… I would trust _you_ with this,” Geralt interrupts Roche’s increasingly frantic thoughts.

“But – me? I have never done anything even closely resembling potion brewing; above all in a situation where so much is at stake.” He starts to get exasperated; he should better calm himself down. Taking a deep breath, he sits down on the chair beside Geralt.

Not knowing what kind of creature possibly infected Geralt’s wound, and dealing with this unspecified amount of blood loss, he is, for a brief moment, deluged with a mass of disordered thoughts whirring in his mind.

Regaining a sense of order and structure, as well as maximum control over all things going on is an ability for which he is renown, as it is something which he is especially good at. Leading a specialist force and successfully commanding several most important battles doesn’t come from nothing. 

Now, where more personal matters are concerned, and – on top – with a skill demanded that he hasn’t had the chance of gaining practice in beforehand, he has to put away all doubt in an instant. It’s not that _that_ would be something he’s not used to.

He clenches his teeth. “Are you sure you want me to do this, Geralt?” he repeats.

“Roche, yes. If I can rely on someone to not let me down, it’s you.”

“Ah, fuck,” Roche sighs wearily.

“I’ll help you where I can, but, I’m afraid, you’ll have to do the major work. You’ll find everything in the bag I brought, over there.”

Roche glances in the direction where Geralt points, and spots a brown leather bag, closed with a broad strap. Paulo must have brought it in when he carried the water for Geralt.

“Okay, I’ll do my best.”

“Well. First, you’re going to need that scroll with the blue ribbon, it contains the recipe,” Geralt starts. “Best bring the bag over to the desk; you’ll also need a bowl that withstands fire.”

Going over to the bag, Roche rolls the sleeves of his white linen shirt up, now determined. If he’s going to do this, then he’s going to do it properly. He’s no man of things done halfheartedly.

Carrying the bag to the desk he pushes away several of his papers to make room for it. Rummaging in a drawer, he produces a medium sized steel bowl. Placing it next to the bag, he opens the latch and peers inside to find the mentioned scroll being squashed to the side. Carefully extricating it, he then loosens the ribbon and starts unrolling.

The paper is stiff and frayed at the edges, but obviously well used. The letters at the top form a heading:

 _ **The Book of the Kiss.**_

Roche scans the page briefly and starts to browse over the smaller sections of the scroll. He pauses then and scrutinizes Geralt instead.

“ _The book of the kiss,_ Geralt? Are you sure this is not some cheap filthy novel?” He huffs with a half contained laugh.

Geralt smirks at him from over the room. “Wait until you get to the potion I need you to make,” he drawls, rustling on the bed.

Roche focuses on the scroll again, skipping over the sections more closely. 

_**Insectoid Oil** , increases damage which is caused to insectoids –_

no,

 _ **Argentia** , increases damage which is caused to silver-sensitive monsters –_

no, again,

 _ **Kiss** , staunches bleeding and rises resistance to it_. 

Ah yes. He feels the corners of his mouth lift and his ears heating up despite himself.

“There, you got it,” Geralt proclaims with a tired grin and his eyes closed, “Consider yourself assured there’s nothing to that particular name. At least none of which I would know of.”

Roche cannot suppress a short laugh. “If you say so…” he retorts. 

“However, it says here you need two parts Vitriol and one part Vermilion, how do I find that in this bag of yours?” the Temerian muses, peering into the leather garment.

“Vitriol’s that blueish crystalline stone, Vermilion is a rather brown-orange stone.”

Roche digs a bit in the bag, feeling stones, some soft, small bundles of various herbs, pieces of dry wood and some glassy jars, as well as little pouches containing some type of stuff. Searching a bit more, he pulls out diverse stone-like items, some purple, some brightly yellow and some crystal clear. He even discovers something which looks like an actual, plain stone.

Geralt’s pained cough halts his curiosity getting the better of him, and he recovers two translucent blue stones and an orange gem, holding them up for Geralt to confirm his findings. They feel strangely smooth, with a hard, but also brittle surface that warms so quickly to the touch of his fingers he wonders if the stones could have been sweltering all the time, even in the bag.

“These’re the right ones?”

Geralt squints at the items. “Yes, exactly. Put them in the bowl. You’ll need some kind of base as well. Do you have some strong alcohol here? Must have a very high concentration. Pour that over the other ingredients,” he advises while Roche is starting to search the cabinet behind his desk.

“Does this suffice?” Roche asks a few moments later, holding up a very dusty bottle. “Says… _Temerian Rye_ on the label. This stuff is definitely too tough to drink. Wonder why I got that here…”

“That’s perfect, Roche,” Geralt mutters, heaving a relieved sigh. “Put the bowl in the brazier and wait for it all to boil up until there are no solids left. Then I can drink it if there isn’t any more chance of me setting myself on fire.”

Roche grunts affirmatively in reply, opening the bottle with a precise hit of a dagger to the ridge of the neck and pours the contents into the bowl. He goes over to the fire carefully and places the bowl firmly on top of the glowing coals and ashen remains of wood. The heat of the fire warms his face; beads of sweat are starting to form on his forehead. 

Raising his elbow to his face, he wipes his sleeve over it and looks to Geralt briefly.

“So now we just wait? Should I stir the potion?” he inquires, still standing next to the fire. The mixture is starting to heat up; the scent of the solids starting to dissolve is metallic and earthy.

“Yep, we wait. You can stir it, doesn’t do any harm,” Geralt approves.

“I hope this works; otherwise, I’m afraid, I’m at a loss…” Roche confesses, using his dagger to move the ingredients around once. Why the hell is it suddenly so warm in here? He retreats a few steps and goes to sit beside Geralt again. His wound doesn’t appear to have improved. He leans towards the small table on his left, fetching some new bandaging.

“Let’s renew that a bit,” he proposes and commences to fix some additional fabric onto Geralt’s already soaked bandages, wrapping it gently over the Witcher’s abdomen and tucking it in between the other bandages.

Roche feels Geralt’s eyes on him. He hesitates to look up, feeling a sense of trepidation. 

This whole thing here is crazy. He should have let Hortensio send someone to get a healer; he hopes he will get away with this, just this fucking once. He isn’t sure if he trusts himself. If he were religious he would almost _pray_ now that the potion will take effect as it’s written down in that scruffy, old scroll.

Funny name, that thing. Doesn’t matter now, does it?

Roche is aware he’s not familiar with the exact constitution and system of a Witcher’s mutated body, but he believes Geralt can do a better judgement than he ever could. Nevertheless, such prolonged blood loss, albeit a small trickle, cannot do _any_ remotely human person any good.

Lost in thoughts, he rests his hand gently on the plane of Geralt’s stomach, where he’s just straightened the bandage.

“Smells as if the potion could be done,” Geralt interrupts softly.

Roche straightens immediately, pulling his hand back the same instant as he gets up. Nearing the brazier, he checks with the dagger that the potion has indeed dissolved completely into liquids by now, a translucent blue simmering. The smell is suddenly overpowering everything else, even the burning wood and remnants of smoke are not noticeable at the moment. 

He takes two small, thick rugs to lift the glowing bowl out of the coals and onto the cleared spot on his desk. Placing a ceramic cup next to the bowl, he tilts the latter and transfers part of the potion into the cup. Cursing at the sweltering materials, he takes the cup and brings it to Geralt.

“Here, I think it’s still too hot, maybe wait a minute more,” he cautions, his own fingers already stinging from the heat. He sets the cup on the table next to the bed.

“Thank you, Roche,” Geralt sighs and proceeds to heave his body up a little.

A few moments later the Witcher has propped himself up onto his elbows. “I think I’ll give it a try.”

“Okay.” Roche hands the cup to Geralt, who accepts it with a nod. Their fingers touch. He still keeps his hold on the cup when Geralt lifts it up to his lips, supporting it. Blowing shallowly over the liquid, Geralt takes a first sip.

Roche catches himself holding his breath, eyes fixed to the man’s pale face in anticipation. When the temperature of the potion seems bearable, Geralt takes another sip, then another. Within a few minutes, the cup is empty, and Geralt lowers himself down again with an effort.

Roche takes the cup from his hands and puts it back onto the table.

Geralt’s face looks no different; he’s still tense with pain, his brows drawn together. 

The Temerian listens to the man’s strained breathing and reminds himself that he, Roche, is fine, thank you very much, and there’s no reason why his breathing should be affected as well. Except for the staggering heat in the room. The air seems to be thicker than before.

“How do we know it’s worked?”

“Bleeding stops,” Geralt rasps, “think it will. Just a… moment…” He sags a bit further into the mattress.

Roche cards his fingers through his hair, hand halting at his nape, fingers kneading his tense muscles. He has just opened his mouth to further inquire and reassure himself, when he senses the heat of Geralt’s heavy body lying beneath him with a start, his head buzzing.

He holds himself extra still, wary of the heat creeping up his back.

He wonders, irritated. The feeling in his body spreads, his arms and legs now also start to feel heavier, the heat still rising. He licks his upper lip, tasting salty sweat on his tongue. Roche wipes his arm over his face.

“Geralt… what’s going on? Tell me,” he orders. “I… I feel … weird… what is this?” His vision is swimming.

Roche leans against the backrest of his chair. His breath is coming faster, he tries to force more air into his lungs, but there’s no use to it. His chest is as constricted as he cannot remember except from sickness or bruised rips. He has to close his eyes to escape the swaying vision and shut out the white spots dancing in front of him. Great. Now, hyperventilating? What the hell is wrong with him…?

Geralt tilts his head lightly towards Roche. “There might be… side effects… ah, but chances are – I never thought –“ He gulps down air, eyes blazing and roaming Roche’s face.

“What side effects?” Roche grates out, resting the weight of his upper body now on his arms, hands gripping his knees white-knuckled. His breath is still giving him troubles. He tries to rein it in, to breathe in and out deep and controlled, but since when has that become so difficult?

Geralt cleans his throat awkwardly. He looks to Roche again, and this time their eyes meet.

“I,” Geralt begins, then tries again, “It has something to do,…” he gasps, “…to do with who makes the … the potion, but,…” He screws his eyes shut.

Roche feels lightheaded. His face is hot, his fingers tingling. He feels every thread of the material of his trousers, his fingers still gripping tight. At once, he lets go. He’s barely aware of what he’s doing. He doesn’t mind anymore. Without explicitly wanting to, his hands find the edge of the bed Geralt is lying on. He digs his fingers into the soft material of the bedsheets, holding on, pulling himself forward slowly, and leaning over.

The same moment Geralt’s right hand is coming up to fist itself into the soft linen shirt he’s wearing. Roche barely comprehends that Geralt is dragging him still further. Further towards him.

Geralt is breathing heavily as well; his breaths rattle through his bruised body.

Roche is aware of it all. His eyes flicker over Geralt’s face. His chest is heaving slowly, the sheen of sweat on his skin, scars glistening silvery. The bandage presents a stark contrast, even to the pale skin and shirt of the Witcher. The blood still staining the material is almost glowing.

“Roche…”

Roche aches. He feels a drop of sweat run down from his neck into the collar of his shirt, down over his chest. He _wants_. Why can’t he stop those thoughts anymore?

When Geralt’s other hand reaches for his hip, he has to catch himself with his arms on both sides of the Witcher’s body to not crush him. Half standing, half leaning over Geralt, Roche cannot avert his eyes from the blazing golden orbs staring up at him. 

Geralt huffs a short breath, the hot air feels moist on his face. He wets his lips again. His pulse must be nearing its maximum, heart pounding frantically. Roche’s eyes graze over Geralt’s face, his expression strangely open. His pupils are huge, his lips parted, looking temptingly soft. Wait – where did that thought come from?

Roche cannot think about anything else anymore. Only a strong tugging in his chest, a hot seething feeling, and an invisible pull down, down, _down_ , onto Geralt, are left. 

Suddenly, he just knows he’s worn down. Exhausted, even. From one moment to the other, Roche decides it’s too strenuous to resist anymore. 

Why should he? 

He feels Geralt’s hands pulling at him, incrementally, unyieldingly. With a groan of desperation, he crushes his lips onto Geralt’s.

He is completely unprepared for the rush bursting through him at the sensation of the kiss. The feeling pools hot in his stomach. He inhales through his nose, smelling Geralt’s hot skin and undercurrents like fire and metal and lowers himself onto his forearms, bracing Geralt’s head and getting even closer. 

Opening his mouth, Geralt responds instantly and their tongues touch. Geralt’s arms come up to hold tightly onto his waist and shoulders, their tongues sliding hot and wet, lips so sensitive but the feeling still not enough. They breathe the same air, noses brushing, rough stubble on their jaws, lips pressing together, sliding, hot, so hot.

Roche kisses Geralt urgently, with all the intent coursing through his veins. His hands find their way into Geralt’s silky hair, gripping tightly, as if he preferred never letting go again. Geralt gives a low moan, and Roche is overwhelmed by another wave of heat bursting through him. He is trembling, shaking, shaken.

His shirt clings to both his own and to Geralt’s chest, as he lowers himself down as much as he dares. He shifts further onto the bed, his right leg insinuates itself between Geralt’s legs. He presses some of his weight down onto Geralt, now lying half on top of the Witcher, their bodies flush against each other.

Deepening the kiss, Roche licks onto Geralt’s palate, flicking his tongue against Geralt’s teeth, only to be met with the same crazed intensity, until he cannot think anymore, but only kiss, kiss, and kiss. 

He needs, he _wants_ , like he has to crawl inside the man and consume him whole. Something in his head clicks into place. He suddenly feels as if he had been missing out on something important for maybe forever. To give in, to give himself to someone, to melt into someone.

When it’s not enough anymore, his lips slide to Geralt’s jaw, pressing firmly, teeth nipping, tongue laving over the bite, kissing his way down Geralt’s neck. Where neck meets shoulder he bites down firmly, sucking strongly.

“Ahh… Roche,” Geralt rasps. His hands grip the back of Roche’s neck, slide trough his hair, and rove over his back, clutch at his shoulders. He is clinging to the Temerian for all it’s worth.

“ _Fuck,_ Geralt,” Roche pants weakly, unsticking his mouth from the Witcher’s neck. He cranes his head back a little, thoughts spinning to a halt slowly.

“What is this – is this what you meant?”

The Witcher trembles. “Yeah, I-” he swallows, and Roche’s gaze slides momentarily down to his neck again, before settling on Geralt’s face, “I… think so.”

Roche pushes himself up onto his hands again, still half lying on Geralt’s body. The strange tugging inside his chest has vanished, he no longer feels as if he’s not in control anymore. 

Yet, the blood is rushing in his ears. He _wants_ to kiss Geralt; the ghost of the feeling attempting to pull him down again. More concretely, he is still so out with it that he does not remember why he should even worry. Heart pounding, his lips tingle, and his teeth are already aching for Geralt.

Geralt, too, regards him intently. His focus seems to aim for calmness, but his eyes are still wild.

“There’s a saying that when a person with a mutual… sentimental connection prepares the potion, their feelings will impact the product and the potion then… reinforces those feelings.”

“Like a… like a spell?” Roche asks, slightly incredulous.

“Yes, but it doesn’t conjure things up out of thin air… at least that’s the saying.” Spots of color form on Geralt’s cheeks.

Roche pauses, still stunned at his own frenzy, “Do you… You felt it, too?”

“Yes.”

Geralt’s right hand comes up and his fingers hold Roche’s jaw very gently. His thumb strokes over the cheekbone, fingers caressing his jaw. Roche lets his gaze settle, regarding the features of the handsome face of the Witcher closely. The look in Geralt’s eyes is nearly emotional.

Roche’s heart gives a jump, and he feels his face coloring as well.

“But I…, I’m –”

“Don’t be sorry,” Geralt interrupts him. “ _I_ should be the one being ashamed at the trouble I’ve caused you, _again_. I… should have told you beforehand there could be certain… complexities.”

Roche sighs. He averts his eyes to Geralt’s chest, the bandage peeking out where the last buttons of his collar are still open. For a moment, he listens to their breathing, unconsciously matching Geralt’s slow breaths.

“I… should not jeopardize the healing of your wound.” He starts to push himself up, twists away from Geralt’s touch although it physically pains him. He lifts off Geralt, and sliding back onto the chair where he sat before, he straightens his shirt, tugging at the collar. He clears his throat almost awkwardly.

Geralt’s eyes follow him, his hand still half raised in the air. Roche feels a stinging sensation in his chest and takes it with both of his hands. 

He _cannot_ go back to before as if nothing had happened. He closes his fingers firmly around Geralt’s warm hand, and, following a weirdly thrilling intuition, drags it up slowly and rests his lips on the bruised knuckles. The expression of the Witcher changes from wonder to contentment, a small sigh escaping his lips. 

“I know you would never,” he responds quietly.

Roche watches Geralt’s face intently. “I… thank you, Geralt. I’d never thought you’d feel this way,” the Temerian murmurs, “I admit, I… did not fathom this was something I would ever get to indulge…” 

He swallows, and, with the confession, the awkwardness evaporates. He huffs a small laugh when he notices Geralt’s smirk.

“Ves was maybe right, about us… being a very special pair,” Geralt acknowledges with so much as an eye roll.

Roche lets himself be tugged towards Geralt again and can catch himself just one or two inches above the other man, sinking onto his elbows like before as Geralt continues to pull insistently. Lifting his head a little bit, Geralt stops just short before Roche’s face.

As the Witcher speaks, his deep voice rumbles through his chest and Roche feels their lips touch. He is already addicted to the sensation. Pleasure rushes down his spine.

“Hope you don’t mind me staying here, with you, a little longer… got to make up for something.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of taking the very personal liberty of fitting this particular potion (and all of its characteristics and those of potions in general) to its name, irrespective of what the name actually means. I hope I did not violate the _Witcher-_ universe too much (or so I tried): no liability assumed.


End file.
